When he who must hang breathes neither a prayer nor a
curse,
Nor speaks any word, not looks around, nor does anything
save to chew his bit of tobacco and yawn
with unsated sleep.
They grew afraid of the hidden moon and the stars, they
grew afraid of the wind that held its breath, and
of the living things that never stirred in their
sleep,
And they gurgled a bargain to him from under their
masks.
I know what they promised to him, for I have heard
thrice the bargains that hounds yelp to the
trapped lion:
They asked him to promise that he would turn back
from his road, that he would eat carrion as they,
that he would lap the leash for the sake of the
offals, as they―and thus he would save his life.
But not one lone word he answered―he only chewed his
bit of tobacco in silent contempt
IV.
Now Black as their face became whatever had been
white inside of the six men, even to their mothers'
milk,
And they inflicted on him the final shame, and ordered
that he should kiss the flag.
They always make bounden men kiss the flag in America,
where men never kiss men, even when they
march forth to die.
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